"Not the most convenient format," I lamented, watching as the seven Hands, two teenage girls, and two droids lined up before me almost in a row. "Next time we'll meet in the Citadel."
"As you command, Lord," Atroxa replied. This earned her distrustful, mocking looks from everyone present. Even the mechanical warriors exchanged glances. I didn't miss how HK, with a characteristic gesture, indicated to everyone that the Letan woman had a screw loose.
"So, I'd like to hear from each of you information about your latest completed missions. Let's start with you, Darth Malgus."
"As you command," the Sith rasped. "With the exception of the Dromund system, Sith Space is under our control. I've established headquarters on Korriban, from which it's convenient to reach any world within the nebula."
"Do the Republic or the Separatists know of your presence?"
"By no means," Malgus said indignantly. "Separatist outposts have been blockaded and destroyed; the Republic invasion armada has been partially destroyed. Acclamator-class ships have been captured and, after extensive repairs, can be brought into service. In orbit of Korriban, Ziost, Ch'hodos, and several other worlds, I've placed orbital stations and garrisons at key planet outposts."
"Excellent," I replied. "Raith Sienar has prepared fifty Harrower-class and Terminus-class destroyers for the Empire. Take another five ships of each type and fifty Dreadnoughts. This fleet must hold the captured territories at any cost."
"I will carry out your will," despite the fact that Malgus's eyes clearly showed no desire to obey, he bowed low.
"How are things with your other assignments?"
"As you commanded, the Jedi Quinlan Vos and the remnants of Darth Maul's Sith have been delivered. Both are placed in the Citadel's cells. These," he pulled two pyramids from under his robe, which I instantly recognized as Sith holocrons, "are my gift to you."
"Details," no, purely practically, I should have tons of this stuff, but why the hell would I refuse something new? "Where did you get them?"
"One belongs to Darth Andeddu. Quinlan Voss and another Dark acolyte were hunting for it during my landing on Korriban."
"And the second?"
"It belongs to XoXaan," the Sith raised his head and looked me straight in the eyes.
"How interesting," I muttered, using the Force to pick up both pyramids and bring them to me.
Just like that, things were taking a rapid turn.
Darth Andeddu — an ancient Sith who, in his time, conquered the planet Prakith in the Galactic Core. He founded his cult there and, naturally, died. And it so happened that a thousand years before today's events, Darth Bane visited Prakith and obtained Andeddu's holocron, learning from it how to transfer his consciousness after death into another body. Which, purely technically, allowed one to live forever. But here's the problem — as far as I remember, Bane destroyed that holocron after making a mental incursion into its data volume.
"I didn't know Andeddu had multiple holocrons," I admitted.
"Polite address. May I speak, master?" Hmm, I certainly hadn't expected this turn of events. What did he want?
"What is it, HK?"
"Benevolent explanation. My previous master, may the Force finally rest his restless soul, told me that Andeddu became paranoid by the time of his death, and therefore, apparently, created several holocrons, which his followers left in different places."
"Thanks for the history lesson from the time of Darth Revan, HK," I smirked.
"Joyful exclamation. I am glad to serve you, Emperor. Hidden hope. Would you like me to kill those two small meatbags you brought with you? Plee-e-ease say 'yes, HK, you may gut them and dry them out.'"
"What?" I was taken aback. I could clearly sense in the Force that Ahsoka and Oli, standing quietly to my right, were significantly tense. "No, HK, you can't kill them! They're my students!"
"Well, I'm with my colleague on this one," the Iokath drone came to life. "You have enough gifted servants without raising two more brats," its shoulder cannon twitched towards the children.
"Oh, you piece of rusty durasteel!" Oli flared up, activating her weapon. "Just make a move, and you'll be melted down!"
"Delight. Has someone finally appeared here worthy of attention?" HK's optical sensors lit up. Honestly, if he weren't a droid, I'd think he was crying with joy. "Disappointed statement. You have no idea, colleague, how much time I've spent without a worthy target."
"Your disappointment is understandable to me. I am one of Iokath's best assault drones. And my sensors bleed lubricant when I have to see what pathetic mechanical soldiers the enemy has."
"Joyful exclamation. Want me to tell you how I destroyed the rebels on Christophsis?"
"That information is worthy of attention..."
"What the hell is going on here?" Ashara gasped quietly.
"That sounds disgusting," Vette wrinkled her nose. "But it seems these two are equally obsessed with killing."
"It almost brings a tear to my eye," Nadia said, pursing her lips, looking with fondness at the scene of the two droids' mutual revelations.
"What's with the sentimentality," Shea demonstratively turned away from the conversing droids. "They're acting like two... oh, Hutt, I just pictured that scene," the girl instinctively suppressed a gag, bending at the waist. "I'm going to be sick."
"Don't forget to take off your helmet first," I advised. Then, seeing the impending uproar, I demanded silence. "HK, Kenny, guard the other side of the entrance bulkhead."
"Joyfully. Whatever you command, master!"
"But there are stormtroopers standing there," the drone's optical sensor blinked.
"Then guard them."
Both droids marched towards the exit. Meanwhile, HK, gesticulating wildly, was vividly describing how he had cut down a good hundred people.
."..and then I crushed his sternum and remarked, 'I'm not hearing any sounds of hydrodomination and rolling, meatbag!'" That phrase was the last one before the two friends with maniacal tendencies disappeared behind the entrance bulkhead.
"That sounded disgusting even to hear," Ashara grimaced.
"You're lucky you only heard it," Vette lamented. "I saw it all..."
The very fact that they allowed themselves to have such frivolous conversations in my presence during their reports, for which I had gathered them together after all, demonstrated that despite everything, for Shea, Ashara, and oddly enough, Vette, I wasn't someone particularly significant. Their behavior itself betrayed their attitude towards me. And if I understood Shea's style from our first meeting — she could only be broken, never bent to one's will, and Vette was basically a woman without brakes — then the fact that Ashara, the head of the Academy on Tython, had actively joined this pair surprised me. It seemed the girl had spent too long away from real power and had gotten a bit "confused." Never mind, if I needed to put her in her place, I wouldn't hesitate.
Looking at Grell's impassive face, I noted that the patterns on her face reminded me of an image I'd seen more than once on resources dedicated to Jedi Exiles.
XoXaan. Just what I needed...
Seven thousand years ago, another period of discontent and a desire to embrace the mysteries of the Dark Side arose among the members of the Order. A conflict flared up, called the Hundred-Year Darkness, as a result of which the adherents of forbidden teachings predictably got their due in every part of their bodies. The Jedi, quite swiftly in an unequal struggle with kind words and lightsabers, reduced the number of dissenters to a dozen, after which mercy SUDDENLY awoke in the Jedi. So they sentenced the twelve apostates to exile and sent them off on a crumbling ship beyond known space.
Unfortunately for the Republic, and indeed the entire galaxy, the exiles survived. They crashed on Korriban, where they quickly subjugated the local race of pureblood Sith, elevating themselves above them. Thus, the title of Sith Lord appeared for the first time.
XoXaan was one of them. Alongside Karness Muur.
The lady turned out to be not as simple as one might have wished. Like Muur, she understood healing through the Dark Side and created various amulets... After her death, according to sources about the cycle of works set in the galaxy a hundred years after the Battle of Yavin, she left her holocron on Korriban, containing a trapped ghost that awaited a suitable student. That student turned out to be the not-unknown A'Sharad Hett, who later became Darth Krayt.
And so, besides Muur's spirit, two more entities had come into my field of vision, both closely tied to Darth Krayt's Empire. I could literally feel XoXaan's spirit inside the pyramid — it had awakened, sensing such a tempting concentration of the Force, especially the Dark Side. However, neither the holocron's guardian nor its mistress's spirit were in any hurry to reveal themselves. How lovely. Did Xaan not consider me worthy of being taught her wisdom? As I recall, she waited millennia before encountering Hett and deeming him suitable for instruction.
Strangely enough, the creator of the method for never dying, Darth Andeddu, also remained a Force ghost — in his fortress on Prakith. One of Darth Krayt's followers had visited the old man regarding certain matters. They couldn't reach an agreement.
And now that was my headache. Just wonderful.
"Thank you for your generous gifts, Darth Malgus," I said, looking him in the eye. I'd have to be very careful with him — I had no confidence that the Sith hadn't peeked into the holocrons' contents. Especially the one belonging to one of the first Lady Sith. Even Vitiate himself couldn't tell whether he could still be trusted, or if this Cossack was already a spy. "Yes, speaking of the Dromund system. I give you permission to capture it."
"It's an honor for me, my lord," he replied, and I could feel the joy and anticipation radiating from him.
"Regain control over it," I continued my order. "And bring the system's shipbuilding resources online. The amount of minerals and materials you're mining on the other planets in Citadel Space should be enough for the uninterrupted construction of ships that will strengthen your fleet."
"In that case, I'll need more living soldiers to command the new starships," he reminded me.
"You'll have them," I had to promise. Well, my plans for conquering the galaxy were rapidly draining my resources. "Yes, and one last thing. Capture as many Prophets of the Dark Side as possible."
"My lord?" Malgus stared at me in bewilderment. "I'm not questioning your judgment, but why do we need those renegades?"
"We?" I had to repeat.
"You, Emperor," the Sith corrected himself instantly.
"Don't overstep your bounds, Malgus," I said coldly. "I only need one of them. All the rest will be fed to the New Forge. That will allow us to increase its productivity in the shortest possible time."
Yes, the automated factory could create any type of machine without delay, replicating it thousands of times. But, like other Rakata technology — the Forge required power from the Force. For now, Masters Ikrit and Baas, imprisoned in its depths, were allowing me to accelerate the production of my fleet. But despite their potential, unfortunately, their lifespan was not long. The Forge would drain them, and then the "fuel" would need to be replaced.
"I will carry out your will," the Sith bowed his head. "May I depart immediately?"
"Go, Lord Malgus," I commanded. "And bring victory to the Empire."
* * *
Racha Sitra, deflecting the blaster bolt fired at her face, redirected it back into the enemy droid.
"Fall back!" she commanded.
There was nothing more to be done here.
Yes, they had found the listening station. On the second moon of Ruusan.
But no one was going to let them leave with that information.
So the Separatists, methodically suppressing fire points on her ship, were boxing the nearly defenseless starship in.
And, without much cleverness, were boarding it — there were enough hull breaches.
The Twi'lek was holding the line on the hangar deck, where the mechanical soldiers of the CIS were barging in as if the place was smeared with motor oil for them.
Looking around, the girl's gaze caught on the nearest clone, whose helmet bore distinctive markings.
"Erkas!"
The clone reacted instantly to the call.
"I'm here, General," he said, ignoring the blaster bolts flying in all directions, approaching her while continuing to spray the enemy with his rifle.
"We have to leave the hangar," she ordered. "And decompress it!"
"Ma'am," even though the clone's head was helmeted, she felt he was looking at her like she was an idiot — "the clankers don't care if there's air or not."
Racha rolled her eyes.
"We'll flush them out of the hangar with the air stream," she explained. Spotting a group of droids, she used the Force to grab a transport container from the deck and hurled it at the enemy.
"Oh, good plan then, ma'am," the clone gave a thumbs-up. "Better than the last one."
Erkas commanded the clone squad she had requisitioned when she charged to retake the hangar. She had thought ten soldiers would be enough, with the deck crew's support, to push the enemy back. But the moment the blast door opened, she realized how badly she had miscalculated.
The droids weren't boarding the ship. They were already inside.
And the deck crew too — though without signs of life.
A droid landing craft sat in the middle of the hangar, so Racha, over Erkas's protests, ordered the CIS ship destroyed with a grenade launcher. The troopers obeyed without question. And as a result, the debris destroyed the main control panel for the hangar door. Leaving the armored bulkhead unlocked, she had been unable to carry out her plan — to block the enemy's quickest access to the Hammerhead's interior.
Erkas and the two surviving clones retreated with Racha, crawling from one piece of cover to another. Finally, only one dash remained — to reach the entrance. And fight their way to the bridge — the path was surely littered with the corpses of soldiers and the determined figures of droids.
Grabbing several transport containers with the Force, Racha hurled them toward the droids, momentarily blocking their field of fire.
"Fall back!" she commanded.
The trio of clones didn't need telling twice. Covering their retreat with suppressing fire, the last surviving troopers vanished into the corridor. One of the soldiers hosed the control panel, and the heavy armored plate sealed off the hangar exit.
"That'll hold them," Racha approved.
"Too many dead," Erkas said, gesturing at the space inside the ship, strewn with clone corpses. Distant sounds of gunfire reached Racha's ears, meaning someone was still alive on board. That was good news.
But the fact that their ship was moving toward an enemy outpost — that was a decidedly unpleasant situation.
Communications had been down since the start of the counter-boarding measures — the droids were probably jamming them. She couldn't even find out what was happening around them.
"What now, General?" the soldier asked.
Oh, if only she knew!
If Qu Rahn had kept his word and returned on time — they'd have been in hyperspace long ago. But no! He'd gone ahead with his mission, forcing the cruiser to fight an unequal battle. And where was Qu now? Unknown. Just as unclear was the fate of Captain Parck. They hadn't known each other long, but of his own free will, he wouldn't have steered even a damaged ship toward the enemy.
"We fight our way to the bridge," the girl decided, calculating that it wasn't that far away. She would try, at all costs, to save the ship — the only way to escape the system.
"Whatever you say, ma'am." Erkas nodded to the clones, and they almost instantly began searching the bodies of their fallen brothers. The Twi'lek felt her eyebrows rise. Looter clones?
Her surprise was evidently too obvious, because the sergeant explained, apparently for her benefit:
"The dead don't need ammo, ma'am. And we could use a few extra power packs."
"Yes, I suppose you're right," the girl said, embarrassed. Noticing the soldiers had finished replenishing their ammunition, she ordered them to move.
Being a general wasn't easy. Especially when you knew nothing about military affairs. Oh, the Force, if she'd been put in command of an archaeological expedition — that was a different matter. But war...
She understood absolutely nothing about it. And her orders stemmed only from what she thought were logical conclusions. But, apparently — not entirely correct ones. When she led the clone unit away, their ship hadn't been on course for the enemy base. Now, she berated herself for not staying there, defending the command center.
She berated herself for not being able to order Qu Rahn and avoid this situation altogether...
Rounding a corner, the girl came face to face with a squad of sabotage droids. The machines assessed the situation for an instant, then decided to attack.
The Jedi was faster. Throwing several back with the Force, she instantly activated her snow-white lightsaber, spinning into a deadly dance.
The nearest one she split into two uneven halves, slashing from its pelvis to its shoulder. The second one, after parrying a shot aimed at her stomach, she literally decapitated, cutting off the front of its head. The third and last caught a shot in its chassis from a clone, crumpled, and crashed loudly to the floor.
"I think that's all of them," the sergeant commented, walking past the smoking hulks.
"Let's hope it doesn't get any worse from here," the Jedi lamented.
Surprisingly, the rest of the way was much calmer. They ran into a few B-1 squads, which were dealt with quickly and without much fuss. If only it were like this all over the ship, she thought.
The bridge was just some passage away when the sound of melting metal reached Racha.
"Be careful," she warned, just in case. "I hear someone trying to cut through the bridge blast door..."
"Get ready," Erkas waved to the clones. Weapons clicked, informing their owners they were ready for more firefights.
Peeking around the corner, Racha quickly assessed the situation.
"Captain Parck?" she said in surprise.
The officer looked terrible. Half his face was burned down to the bone of his skull. His left eye was gone, and his right was constantly squinting. Instead of hair on his head — one continuous wound, sealed with a scab.
With his right hand, he kept supporting his left, which was obviously broken — the moment he let go, it hung like a whip.
"General Sitra," the officer wheezed. He stood surrounded by a half-platoon of clones and crew members, covering a pair of clones who were trying to break through the thick bulkhead with a heavy cutter. "Glad you're alive."
"Likewise, Captain," the girl said, approaching the team. The trio of clones followed her. "What happened?"
"Oh, just a little trouble," from his tone and agitated state, the Jedi understood he was in shock — "Sabotage droids broke into the bridge and started killing my crew. Lodbrok," he pointed to one of the scouts, "pulled me out of the bridge after the explosion. We gathered a squad to retake the ship."
"I'm sorry this happened," Racha said sincerely. The officer flinched as if struck. "Do you know where General Rahn is?"
"I don't know, and I don't want to know," the commander snapped. "If you see him, tell him how glad I am that he found what he was looking for. Right now, I'm more interested in where my ship is going."
"The droids are leading us to their mother ship," the Twi'lek shared the latest news. "We spotted it during the hangar battle. A Trade Federation Core Ship. But it's completely covered in communication gear."
"That's probably the listening station itself," Vos assumed. "Too bad we've got nothing to blow that thing up with."
"The missile launchers are intact, sir," Erkas reminded him. "I think we can find a few flight-ready fighters in the maintenance bay."
"That won't help us against four Sep frigates," Vos Parck said negatively. Glancing at the cutters, he asked, "How much longer?"
"About twenty minutes, sir, the alloy is very thick," a clone replied.
"Hutt," the officer cursed. "In twenty minutes we'll have already docked."
"Allow me to try to help," Racha volunteered. Approaching the bulkhead, she activated her lightsaber and plunged it into the alloy.
She had never done anything like this before. Though she was a good lightsaber duelist, having earned praise during her apprenticeship from the Troll himself, the girl rarely used her weapon for its intended or any other purpose.
She had become a Knight quite recently — less than two months ago, when her teacher deemed his Padawan ready to face the Trials, which she passed brilliantly. And instead of an expedition to Ossus — the ancient Jedi abode — the Council kept her in the Temple for a while without assigning any missions, and then announced her participation in the war. As befits a Jedi, the girl did not question the Council's will.
"It's going slow," Lodbrok commented on her efforts. The girl looked at the ten-centimeter melted groove her blade had left. Yes, the metal was definitely strong. But the work was progressing much faster than if the clones had continued cutting the bulkhead on their own.
Meanwhile, the captain, deciding to leave the bulkhead problem to her, started giving orders, deploying clones to advantageous defensive positions — in case of unexpected guests.
"Do you know what happened to General Rahn?" she quietly asked the scout.
"I dropped him off on Ruusan." Upon hearing this, the Twi'lek nearly let go of her blade.
"What? He was supposed to return."
"I told him that, ma'am," the clone admitted. "But the General ordered me to take him to the canyon where some dilapidated statues stand. And then — he left the shuttle, taking some supplies with him. We tried to wait and search for him, but he turned off his comlink."
The girl cursed mentally, catching herself thinking a Jedi shouldn't say such things out loud. But how, in the Hutt's name, could Qu Rahn do this?! Was his obsession with finding the Valley of the Jedi so great that he would break his oath of allegiance to the Republic? A Jedi deserting the army? The Council wouldn't like that at all. And Grand Moff Dougan wouldn't be thrilled either.
Racha had never met him, but extremely contradictory rumors circulated in the Temple. Some said he was a hero and an excellent warrior; others, that he was a blowhard and a poser, arrogant in his hubris. The Twi'lek wasn't used to forming opinions based on others' words, so she decided to put that off until she met her fellow Jedi in person.
And that it wouldn't be the most pleasant meeting, the girl was beginning to vaguely suspect.
The blade touched the door's mechanisms — sparks flew from under the molten metal. Pulling back the hand that one of them landed on, Racha noticed the plate give way to the side.
"Captain," she called out to Parck. "The mechanism is destroyed, the blast door can be moved manually."
"Excellent." The human gave the corresponding order, and several clones, grabbing the edges, began to shift the heavy plate to the side.
As soon as a gap appeared large enough for a person to slip through, the girl, without a moment's hesitation, darted inside, activating her weapon on the move.
There were about two dozen droids in the bridge — mostly B-1s, a couple of B-2s, and about half a dozen commando droids. Nothing she couldn't handle.
Sitra opened herself to the Great Force, asking it to guide her hand.
The blade, like an extension of her body, flashed, deflecting blaster shots, biting into the hulls of the enemy machines. She felt, rather than saw, the clones pouring into the bridge behind her, firing accurately at the droids.
The girl rejoiced. Her chances of success had multiplied.
Ducking before a B-2 that appeared suddenly in front of her, the girl swept her blade, severing both arms with their built-in weapons, then cut it in two with a sliding upward strike.
Just then, the vibroblade of one of the commando droids flashed before her. The girl recoiled, avoiding getting a scar across her entire face, then pulled the droid toward her and, with one powerful slash of her snow-white blade, cut it in half.
Another commando, who tried to shoot her at point-blank range, collapsed with a melted head, drilled by a precise shot from Erkas. The girl allowed herself a moment's distraction from the battle, nodding to the clone in gratitude. He mockingly saluted her, hitting a B-1 that had appeared out of nowhere in the head with his rifle butt.
A couple of minutes later, not a single intact droid remained on the bridge.
"Controls seem intact, sir," a clone from the crew reported to Parck. "We have control of engines, weapons. We can make the hyperspace jump..."
"Not now," the human said slowly, staring through the observation screen at the massive interception station hanging before the ship.
Like an animal whose fur had evolved into sharp spikes over millennia, the Core Ship bristled with hundreds of antennas of various designs. Even to the naked eye, it was obvious this starship would never fly anywhere again — it was a stationary structure, placed in orbit of Ruusan's second moon to eavesdrop on communications from the shadows. Without outside help, it would not leave its post.
"The enemy obviously doesn't know that the ship is back under our control," Erkas voiced his thoughts. "We can use that to our advantage."
"You're absolutely right, Sergeant," the captain agreed. "Go to the missile control panel. As soon as we get close to that station — open fire with everything we've got."
"Sir, that'll reveal us," Lodbrok noted.
"But we'll destroy the listening post," the ship's commander countered. "That's our priority target in this situation. Who knows if the Core Ship will stay in the system if we just run. If it does — the Separatists will bring an armada here to protect the asset. If not — our people will have to scour the entire oversector again looking for this infestation. So, we're going to do everything to destroy the listening post. Any objections?" And without giving anyone a chance to open their mouth, the captain continued. "Good. Head to the missile control panel, son."
"Yes, sir," Erkas acknowledged, taking a position opposite one of the massive operator consoles.
"Wait until the last moment," Vos Parck warned. "Are the launchers open?"
"Since the start of the battle, sir."
"Then that's excellent," the captain grinned ominously. "Be ready to open fire as soon as we're a couple of kilometers from their base. We can't let them dodge or intercept the missiles."
"Captain," the Twi'lek approached the human. "You're undoubtedly performing a heroic act. The Separatists won't leave a wet spot of us after we destroy their base."
"I'm aware, General," the burned officer nodded. "You don't need to voice my own thoughts to me. You're a Jedi, aren't you? I hear you all have some ability to foresee things. We could use any help — especially with operating the hyperdrive."
At first, the girl was taken aback, realizing the captain was giving her orders. But realizing that time and circumstances were not conducive to exchanging pleasantries, she silently sat down at the required console.
"On my command, be ready to launch the missiles," the captain raised his voice slightly so everyone present could hear him. "Immediately after the explosion — engage the hyperdrive, and we'll try to get out of here..."
The Hammerhead and the Core Ship were barely five to seven kilometers apart when the cruiser's missile launchers vomited a stream of strike projectiles. Like enormous smoky cigars, they emerged from their nests and sped toward the defenseless station — visually, there weren't even anti-meteorite guns on the surface of the Separatist ship. Well, too bad for them.
The simultaneous detonation of a dozen projectiles was a terrible thing. They literally turned the enemy ship inside out, transforming it into a huge rain of fire and shrapnel.
The Hammerhead lurched as numerous pieces of debris hammered against its bow.
"And now it's time to run," Parck said with satisfaction.
The cruiser shook. Then several more times — the enemy had seen through their trick and was now trying at least to prevent them from escaping.
"General!" Parck shouted as a new damage marker appeared on the ship's status screen. That was it for the sensor cluster. The Hammerhead was blind.
"I'm on it." The girl finished entering the hyperspace coordinates, and then, as if kicked in the rear by a giant foot, the ship sped toward the stars, escaping the fate of being turned into a handful of debris.
The moment the cruiser vanished, transitioning to hyperspeed, dozens of turbolaser slashes cut through the space it had occupied a second earlier.
* * *
"So," I said, turning my gaze to the Mandalorian woman standing with an air of independence. "How are things on the Western Front?"
"Same as always," the girl shrugged. Then, realizing this wasn't the place for her attitude, she continued. "I recruited all the Jedi you indicated who were left on Coruscant. I took them all to Tython."
"What I'm most interested in, actually, is the massacre you carried out in the Temple," the icy tone of my voice seemed to sober the redhead, shaking off her delusion of infallibility. "Did I set such a task?"
"No. We acted according to the circumstances." Turning my mask toward the Togruta, I noted the girl was practically burning with anger. "We followed the Duros's trail, and after his bomb exploded, we tied up the Jedi, immobilized Bane, and broke into the vault. Not our problem that that turncoat decided to escape through a vent. He managed to disable the outer doors' security — and then everyone in the Archives saw us during the operation."
"You're just butchers!" Like a little predator ready to pounce, the Togruta took a few steps forward. "Jedi died because of you!"
"Midge," Vizsla said lazily. "We're Mandalorians. Turning Jedi into bloody mincemeat is our national sport."
"How dare you!" The Togruta grabbed her sabers in indignation but wisely didn't activate them.
Giving me the chance to stop this whole circus.
"Actually, the Mandalorians have scores to settle," I sobered the girl. "Not much time has passed since the Jedi conducted the Mandalorian Purge, completely destroying the ecosystem of Mandalore and several other planets."
"That... can't be true!" Ahsoka declared convincingly.
"And yet it is, little pipsqueak," Shay stated. Looking at the confused Togruta, she continued. "I delivered all the holocrons and the bounty hunter to Zakuul."
"Cad Bane?" The bounty hunter's fate didn't interest me much, but he possessed some information that would be useful.
"In the Citadel dungeons," the Mandalorian shrugged. Naturally, she considered keeping the Duros alive a mistake, but I had no intention of sharing my plans with her or any of my other underlings. "A little banged up, but alive."
"Excellent work." The girl didn't react to the praise. "Cuy'val Dar?"
"Stopped working for the Republic," Vizsla replied. "Seventy men on my side. Some preferred to sit it out."
"Too bad for them," I concluded. "Go to Mandalore. The matter of any competitors needs to be resolved."
"Easy as permacrete," the Mandalorian snorted. "Any orders regarding the Duchess Kryze?"
"She'll be taken care of." Hearing my promise, Ahsoka flinched. Well, get used to it, little one. In this world, diplomacy doesn't solve anything.
As soon as the door closed behind Vizsla, Nadia Grell stepped forward. Kneeling, the girl extended a small glowing cube toward me. Pulling it to me with the Force, I felt the faint warmth it radiated. In contrast to the Sith knowledge repositories, which brought cold to the bone upon contact.
"I activated the holocron by implanting a kyber crystal," the girl explained. "We have all the information. Should I begin recruiting?"
"Not necessary for now."
Indeed, what the hell was the point of taking children — even if they were highly Force-sensitive — from their families in the middle of a war? For now, the training program at the Academy on Tython wasn't ready to enlighten such young minds.
"How is General Loathsom faring?"
"As ordered — personally verified the survivability of escape pods when jettisoned in hyperspace."
"Result?"
"Torn to atoms."
It had been extremely imprudent of me to leave traces of my activities — and even more so to use Ruk on Christophsis. So, since the Council hadn't seen fit to change the location of its secret prison in thousands of years, Nadia corrected my mistakes. No matter what, I shouldn't leave the Jedi or the Chancellor a chance to get too close to me.
Yes, Loathsom had been brought to trial already in a "processed" state — my first experience in subjugating another's mind with the Force had gone poorly. The General was spouting all sorts of nonsense and drooling everywhere. But even in that state, he was dangerous — if the Jedi decided to restore his mind with healers. But like this — no mind, no problem.
"You've familiarized yourself with Master Baas's holocron?" At the mention of the familiar name, my Padawan and Commander Tano perked up. Of course, who in the Temple didn't know that guy.
"Yes, my lord."
"I need all of them," I warned. "Either the Zeison Sha, the Matukai, and the others join Zakuul, or they fall silent forever. Neutrality is less than desirable, so — be extremely persuasive. Deliver those who become our allies to Tython — they will be a valuable acquisition for our new Order."
"As you wish." The girl bowed. Her face showed complete indifference — the same expression worn by the other Force-sensitive Hands. But the two little ones burned with agitation in the Force. Not because they worried about some Force adepts who were only rumored about in the Temple. But from realizing the level at which my Plan was being implemented.
"For the duration of this mission, I'm transferring the Retvizan, the Tsesarevich, and the Eagle to you." The flagship of the Emperor's Ghost squadron had been sitting idle for quite a while — along with its unique weapon. Ever since the ships modified by Sienar began replenishing the Imperial fleet, the need for routine use of the unique dreadnoughts had disappeared, and they all waited for their hour on the capital world's orbit. "Take Commander Ahsoka Tano as your support." The girl practically exploded with surprise.
"But how can I help?" the little Togruta asked, embarrassed.
"You're a vivid example of how imperfect the Jedi Order's policies are," I explained. "I think our potential allies would be interested in hearing firsthand how things really stand in the Eternal Empire of Zakuul."
"I..." Meeting Atroxa's gaze, the girl sighed in resignation. "As you command."
"You may go." Catching the Togruta's almost pleading look, I chose to ignore it. One must understand that in the business of reshaping the galaxy, no one gets to stay clean.
* * *
The blurred trails of myriad stars compressed into points familiar to the eye. The hyperjump was complete. The fleet had arrived in the Doom-Bradden system. And one glance at the enemy's unfolding formations was enough for Gilad to understand — a serious test of strength lay ahead.
"At another time, this planet would make a wonderful tropical resort," remarked the Jedi Tholme, standing beside him.
The officer shot the general a sidelong glance, hoping that thanks to the scar and the blind eye, the man wouldn't notice the skepticism written on the squadron commander's face.
No such luck.
"Are you troubled by something, Admiral?" Tholme inquired.
"Yes, by all the Hutts! Troubled — that's an understatement," Pellaeon thought angrily. "First, because of your bunch, I had to break off a raid and lost the chance to smash the Separatists piece by piece. Then — waste a ton of time waiting for all of you to deign to develop a "brilliant" plan. And now I'm supposed to charge head-on at the enemy fleet! This whole Hutt-forsaken operation is threatening massive losses! Whose side are you even on, Generals?"
"Just a little, General Tholme," Pellaeon said in an even voice. "It seems to me that the enemy is not that few — quite the opposite, in fact."
By the end, he couldn't hold back and let irritation and resentment seep into his speech.
Intelligence had reported that by the initial attack moment, the enemy would have no more than a dozen Munificent-class frigates in orbit around Doom-Bradden — a laughable threat for his squadron. Within an hour, they'd have turned the Separatists into space debris and landed troops on the planet. And by the time the main CIS forces in this sector caught on and converged, he could have taken an advantageous position and, with the support of the attached Arrows, fought even against superior enemy forces.
Now the situation had changed radically.
The enemy's reconnaissance hadn't been idle. As soon as they matched Pellaeon's course with a possible attack vector, they pulled all available forces to the planet. That meant TWO dozen Munificents, five Lucrehulk-class ships, and a Providence-class Star Destroyer — which none of his squadron's ships could match one-on-one. And yes, all this was generously seasoned with hundreds of enemy fighters.
On his side, he had the Equalizer, a dozen Hammerheads, two dozen Marauders, four Acclamators overloaded with infantry and equipment, and two medical Peltas. Yes, there were five Consular-class ships — but those were about as useful as a bandage on a corpse. They'd have to keep them close to the landing ships the whole battle — just to avoid losing at least the landing forces.
Gilad felt a chill run down his spine.
No, he wasn't a coward. He was grieving in advance for the thousands who would die in this fight.
"Launch the fighters," he ordered, addressing the bridge crew. "Prepare the bombers."
A battle plan was already taking shape in his mind.
It was becoming clear that in this engagement, every single combat ship would have to participate.
"Signal the Peltas — tell them to stay close to the cruisers," he ordered. "The Consulars are to guard the medical ships and Acclamators from enemy small craft. Hammerheads and Arrows — Sandwich formation. Arrow 5 — lower hemisphere."
Purely formally, the enemy was inferior in the number of ships, but not in their quality. Each Lucrehulk was worth half of his heavy Hammerhead-class cruisers. And they were armored quite conscientiously. They'd have to "gnaw" through this "cactus" for a long time. Especially since the enemy had already begun a reformation.
The enemy fleet commander had placed the Trade Federation ships in an "X" formation at the center of his deployment. The frigates occupied the spaces between these ships. And like an overseer, above the central Lucrehulk, flanked on two sides by two others, sat the Providence. May the Hutts take its designers! It was a genuine death machine that not every Venator could fight on equal terms!
Okay, he needed to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in...
"Relax, Admiral," the Jedi dropped a pearl. "This formation is commanded by a tactical droid."
"What makes you say that?" Pellaeon frowned. By now, after a year of war, tactical droids no longer inspired the superstitious terror in Republic fleet officers that they had at the beginning of their deployment. The Separatists had tried hard, loading them with data on battles spanning thousands of years. And as a result — the droids commanded successfully. Until Republic commanders learned to break their programmed, stereotypical battle schemes with unexpected maneuvers.
"No organic commander would have sent most of their air wing to meet us," he pointed to the tiny dots approaching them. "Right now, he's effectively leaving his capital ships uncovered for our bombers. Plus — their Lucrehulks are missing their central sections — probably on the planet, deploying ground forces."
"In that case," Gilad calculated, "the Sandwich is the most relevant."
The tactical maneuver called the Sandwich had appeared a little over six months ago — right after the Marauders proved to the entire galaxy that they shouldn't be underestimated. Assault missiles, plus good armament — all of this essentially put them on the same line as light cruisers. But the stubborn fools in the Senate still refused to put the ship up for bidding, which made replenishing combat losses difficult.
The Sandwich was a formation where the main strike forces were in the center, covered from above and below by missile ships capable of turning enemy vessels into non-combatant chunks of metal in minutes. But as practice showed, this formation was most effective against enemy air wings.
Speaking of which... it seemed luck was finally smiling on him.
Trade Federation ships lost significant protection when the core ship separated from the main body of the vessel. Consequently — their shields had weakened. He should take advantage of such an enemy miscalculation.
Countless swarms of droid starfighters — or, as they were called, "Vultures" flew out of the Separatist ships' hangars, preparing to deliver a frontal strike against his fleet.
Well, not on his watch.
"Signal the Marauders — barrage fire," he ordered.
This tactic — a massive air raid from CIS ships — had been analyzed many times in tactical exercises at sector command. A favorite tactic of command droids. Hmm, it seemed the Jedi was right after all.
Or the enemy commander was deliberately misleading them.
Pellaeon's fleet had already closed enough with the enemy for the guns of every single ship to enter the fray. Even the Consulars fired at the enemy now and then.
In such a meat grinder, it was hard to assess the entire picture while standing on the bridge. It was much more convenient to do it near the tactical display on the holoterminal. But right now, as luck would have it, the other Jedi had occupied it. Well, to hell with them.
"And yet you were wrong, General." Pellaeon pointed to an evasive maneuver performed by the enemy fighters. Having suffered enormous losses, contrary to their usual behavior, they didn't continue their attack but broke into flights, engaging Republic fighters in battle. Such tactics were not favored by the droids. In fact — they had never been seen before.
The battle was smoothly devolving into a clinch.
The Arrow commanders, realizing in time that hunting enemy fighters was pointless and risked damaging their own small craft, switched to dueling the Munificents. The Hammerheads, meanwhile, were pounding two Lucrehulks — and quite successfully.
One was already drifting, ejecting the remnants of its oxygen and relatively small pieces of metal into space. The second was still fighting back, but its days were numbered too.
"Launch the bombers," Tholme ordered.
Pellaeon swore quietly. In such a melee, sending them into battle meant guaranteed loss of most of them. But the risk was justified.
"All ships," Pellaeon ordered. "Bomber squadrons — launch. Target — the core ships."
The middle-aged officer's keen eyes didn't miss how the "cores" appeared in the nearly empty sky of Doom-Bradden, trying in a swift rush to rejoin the rest of the fleet. But who would let them do that without trouble?
Meanwhile, the opponents exchanged their first losses.
More than half a dozen enemy frigates were out of commission one way or another — some had turned into smoldering wreckage, others were simply losing atmosphere or chunks of hull. The Republic also had losses — one of the Hammerheads, the Wanderer, had taken a breach in its hangar deck and could no longer rotate small craft.
Before Pellaeon's eyes, the core ship closest to the Republic forces turned into a ball of incandescent gas after a bomber squadron's attack run. Gilad smiled. A good omen.
But there were also casualties among the clones — the victorious squadron lost two-thirds of its personnel, burned in the flashes of Separatist anti-aircraft guns. And almost immediately, "Vultures" latched onto their tail. Spotting this injustice, the nearest Torrent fighters rushed to the rescue, but it was too late.
By the time they finished with the Separatists, only one bomber remained from the squadron.
"Whose unit is that?" Pellaeon asked the tactical clone officer.
"Gold Squadron from the Harbinger, sir," he replied. "Only the squadron commander, Corvo, survived."
"I see." As much as he pitied the pilots, you couldn't save everyone in war.
One of the Lucrehulks silently burst apart — just as a spherical ship docked with it. The Marauders had apparently gotten to it — assault missiles were swarming around the Trade Federation ships.
"Enemy flagship is in range of our guns," the operator reported.
"Attention, Acclamator unit." Gilad opened a comm channel. "Target — the Providence-class destroyer."
The endless stream of "Vultures" had shrunk by almost half, easing the load on Republic fighters. The Torrents darted about like mad, flooding space with blue beams.
Now the battle had entered the phase that officers among themselves called "the scrum."
Clear boundaries between the sides had blurred. The enemy commander had pushed his forces forward, stopping his hen-like posture. The enemy's swift rush had disrupted the Republic fleet's formations. And now the battle had turned into a firefight.
At the same time, Pellaeon had managed to maintain concentrated fire on the enemy flagship.
The carrier ship caught fire, literally disintegrating before their eyes as several proton torpedoes from the Acclamators — which had miraculously reached their target — slammed into it. Blind luck.
"Enemy has no shields!"
"Full salvo of assault missiles!" Gilad reacted instantly.
Unlike its brethren, the Equalizer could show the enemy teeth that wouldn't appear even in their worst nightmares.
Like a snow avalanche on Hoth, a stream of assault missiles left the launch tubes aboard Pellaeon's flagship. Dozens of rocket trails pierced the airless space separating the two flagships...
The enemy reacted. In several directions at once. A huge number of droid starfighters rushed to intercept the deadly projectiles. And the enemy flagship itself tried to veer off its intended course.
Only a third of the original number of missiles reached their target.
That was enough.
Tearing out chunks of hull, crushing gun turrets and sensor clusters, the missiles slammed into the Providence's left flank, instantly ripping a piece out of the ship large enough to fit a decent corvette. And, unfortunately for the enemy fleet — the bridge, gleaming with green transparisteel, disappeared in fiery flashes.
"Continue firing on the flagship!" the Jedi's voice rang out.
Gilad just smirked. What the hell for? These ships, despite their power, had no ability to be controlled from backup bridges — because they didn't have any. Now the enemy fleet had lost command, which meant...
A silent flash of light announced the death of one of the Hammerheads. Hutt...
Right after it, under concentrated fire from a Lucrehulk, another one first went dead in the water, then fell apart after a series of internal detonations. Against this backdrop, the explosion of three Marauders seemed like something insignificant.
"The enemy is changing course," the Jedi noted, pointing to how the enemy squadron, having stopped trying to smash through the Republic ships' formation, fell to the right, exposing their heavily battered sides.
"They're retreating," Pellaeon realized, as the farthest Lucrehulk, using the open space, turned into a swift silhouette. "No, that won't do!"
"Fleet order!" He opened the general comm channel. "Concentrate fire on the Lucrehulk-class ships — we can't let them escape!"
"Admiral." Another Jedi appeared beside him. Tall, stocky. "General Mo," Gilad recalled. "What are you doing? We should destroy them all!"
"Look around, General." Pellaeon pointed toward the enemy ships. "Only a few Munificents from their fleet can make the jump. The rest are flying junk. We need to finish off the Lucrehulks so they don't show up here in a week!"
"I disagree," Mo declared. As if to refute his words, another CIS fleet ship disappeared in flames — along with two Republic bomber squadrons. "I'm countermanding your order..."
"Calm down, Mo," Tholme spoke up. "The Admiral is absolutely right. We can't let those ships roam around in the army's rear. The Munificents pose no threat, unlike the Lucrehulks."
The Jedi stood there, silent for probably five minutes. Then, having witnessed the destruction of yet another Trade Federation starship, he turned and strode away.
"A difficult sentient," the Admiral concluded.
"You don't know how pedantic and annoying he can be yet," Tholme chuckled. "Well, since no one's bothering us anymore, let's see how we can speed up the destruction of the enemy force..."
After another two hours of battle — though it would be more accurate to say mopping up the remnants of the enemy fleet — the Republic fleet began landing the 77th Reconnaissance Corps on the surface of Doom-Bradden.
* * *
"All thirty thousand Spaarti cloning cylinders have been delivered to Odessen," Vette reported when her turn came to account for the work done. "Admiral Block has taken command of headquarters and asked me to convey that clone production is proceeding strictly according to schedule. We already have five full-strength corps of line infantry awaiting orders."
"Did you deliver the captured Acclamator to Lehon?"
"Yes." The girl beamed. "Sienar went on at length about the project's flaws, but promised to fix the shortcomings and put an improved version into production. He also warned that after his modernization, it would be a proper large landing ship, not 'a Kuat knockoff, the offspring of an unnatural love between a mynock and a fruit bat.'"
"Our chief shipbuilder, as always, in his element." I smirked. "Did he give a timeline?"
Even though there was no risk of CIS or Republic listening stations in Wild Space, I wasn't taking chances. Raith assured me he'd encrypted the communication channels so that "no Republic scum would figure out what's what," but my position remained unchanged. Maybe, if the signal was intercepted, our enemies wouldn't understand what was being discussed. But they could trace the source and direction of the communication channel. We weren't ready yet to withstand a siege of our worlds.
"He needs a week to rework the blueprints and produce a prototype. Once it's ready and tested, Sienar is ready to begin production. According to his assurances, using the Ravager developments, he can reduce the crew to two hundred people, but increase the number of troops carried to a corps, including their supporting equipment."
"As always, ambitious." I smiled beneath my mask. Truly excellent news.
Even though we had capital ships — the Harrowers, light Terminus-class destroyers that after modernization better fit the "battlecruiser" classification, as well as starships from the "Dark Forces," the Empire still lacked armed transports for moving ground forces. Using the first three types of starships for such purposes was outright sacrilege. The Acclamators captured by Malgus at the Battle of Korriban were perfect for this.
During my time commanding a sector army, like most Republic military leaders, I became increasingly convinced that the Acclamators didn't live up to their original classification — assault cruiser. Yes, they were relatively well-armed — in the forward hemisphere. But they weren't suited for line combat — only when you really had nothing else to put against a superior enemy. So, despite their massive procurement for the system army, these starships were destined to be military transports, protected within formations by ships designed specifically to repel attacks from enemy line forces. In their original configuration, these ships could carry a legion of clones with full support and heavy equipment, plus a couple of volunteer regiments tasked with rear-area support and guarding strategically important objectives on the planets where the landing occurred. If Sienar (knowing him, it should be "when," not "if") succeeded with the Acclamator modification, delivering one corps of my army wouldn't require dragging four ships of this type — one would be enough to land thirty thousand clones with all necessary heavy support equipment. Considering that both the system army and the Imperial army would have to operate for a significant period without relying on nearby rear bases — it was the most suitable solution.
"How is Mister Doriana feeling?" I inquired, recalling Vette and HK-47's visit to Cartao. An entertaining scheme to seize the last Spaarti cloning cylinders in the galaxy. Vette had taken ten thousand from right under Sidious's nose, and the Kaminoans had loaded another twenty thousand aboard a pseudo-Republic ship. And now Odessen, where the General Staff of the Imperial Army and Fleet under Admiral Block's command was now located, had transformed from an Eternal Alliance base into a competitor to Anaxis, housing our cloning resources and endless clone barracks on and beneath its surface. Four hundred thousand Jango Fett embryos would mature quite quickly under the Spaarti equipment's influence. And they would head into the depths of space unknown to the Republic to secure the borders of the growing Empire.
"He's awaiting his hour in a cell beneath the Citadel," Vette said cheerfully. As if Sidious's underling wasn't currently being cut to pieces in a grim dungeon, extracting every possible piece of information from him.
"Has he revealed anything useful yet?"
"So far — only about his involvement in the destruction of the Outbound Flight."
"What?" Oli couldn't contain herself. "The expedition was destroyed?"
"Yes." To be honest, I wasn't lying. I just hadn't fully disclosed the facts I knew.
The Outbound Flight was Jedi Master Jorus C'baoth's initiative to venture beyond the known galaxy. A massive project that Chancellor Palpatine — also known as Darth Sidious — had tasked Doriana with destroying, using Trade Federation ships, to prevent even the possibility of the ships falling into the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong, for the confrontation with whom the future Emperor had been preparing his entire life after the destruction of the Jedi Order.
But the Force had other plans.
Doriana's ships were destroyed by a young commander of the Chiss Ascendancy — Thrawn. Acting under the influence of Sidious's stories about the threat the expedition posed to the galaxy if it fell into the hands of the invaders, he helped Doriana shoot down the Jedi ships. Officially, it was believed that all the settlers had died. However, the truth was that although the Outbound Flight hadn't reached its goal, it had crashed on the planet Redoubt, located within the Ascendancy's territory. The survivors lived in complete isolation from the rest of the galaxy for several decades, until the Chiss, having established diplomatic contacts with the New Republic — the state that replaced the Empire after Palpatine's death on the second Death Star — discovered the wreckage. And the descendants of the settlers.
Besides the destruction of the expedition, Doriana — unaware that Sidious and Palpatine were the same person — had done much for his master. And I had a feeling that the staged assassination attempt on the Chancellor was his handiwork.
Yes, for now, Palpatine's advisor wasn't very talkative. Soon he would sing. Ziro the Hutt hadn't been particularly cooperative either — until they started skinning him with a dull knife.
"The laboratory on Yavin IV continues its work under the protection of the Farr clan," Vette continued. "A thousand cloning cylinders are continuously producing soldiers according to new parameters."
I just nodded silently.
Yes, the Spaarti cylinders produced clones that were racially loyal only to me, who would never go against the Empire or my will. At least — that was the plan.
However, at my personal request, Ko Sai was creating special clones. Outwardly, they were no different from the other Jango Fett clones — except for some features unknown to the general public. These soldiers were destined to be more than just stormtroopers. They were fated to be my personal army, unquestioningly executing any order — from orbital bombardment to killing any sentient, whoever they might be. Especially if the enemy was Force-sensitive. They would form the crews for my personal fleet — the Emperor's Ghost, which I planned to expand as soon as I could acquire Adegan crystals. It wasn't right for an Immortal Emperor to have only a dozen ships. No, guys. My fleet should serve, guarding the strategically important systems of the Empire, where ordinary sentients would simply be denied access. Yavin IV, Nathema, Ziost, Dromund Kaas, Tython, Lehon, the Maw Installation. Malgus certainly suspected that the clones under his command were loyal to me, but he hardly knew how deeply that obedience was programmed into their minds.
"You are all my servants, slaves, tools," Vitiate had once said. And, I must say, I was beginning to understand that madman. When the question was about conquering the galaxy by force, holding it together from collapse and decay — all means were justified. For the sake of a better future.
Sentients, even the most loyal, could betray — as this galaxy's history had proven many times.
But those with obedience to me hardwired into their subconscious — never.